


that hungers and lusts and drives the creature relentlessly

by Trigonometrical



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Altered Mental States, Canon-Typical Daddy Kink, Crying, Developing Relationship, Dubious Consent, Guilt, M/M, Rimming, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23878513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trigonometrical/pseuds/Trigonometrical
Summary: or, what if Pat and Brian's trip to the roadside conservatory led to a different, overwhelming need?
Relationships: Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39
Collections: Polygon Remix Challenge April 2020





	that hungers and lusts and drives the creature relentlessly

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the force that drives the flower](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118235) by [fishcola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola). 

> Thank you to Fish for letting me get into this fucky world and make it even fuckier. Most of the dialogue is either pulled directly or has been adapted from the original fic. And some other choice lines within, besides.
> 
> I did take notes from the master, so please note that where this fic ends is perhaps not the happiest of endings. In the alternate universe version where an entire fic from this angle exists, there would _be_ a happy ending (just like in the original) but—not here, folks. They don't even get to communicate it out. :(
> 
> Title from "The Force that Drives the Flower," by Annie Dillard.

3:15pm

With chamomile tea pressed into his trembling hands, Brian gets . . . something like an explanation. The flower—that one that Pat smelled—

He glances at Pat on the floor, Pat who’s writhing and jerking like a possessed thing. It’s base, animalistic, the primal _wrongness_ clawing at Brian’s throat like that time he’d gone to a tent revival and hidden when they started speaking in tongues. Pat’s mumbling to himself, punctuated by sharp whimpers and low whines, and his eyes are wild and black and thoughtless. The explanation that he got poisoned by some kind of sex plant is horrifying, but not as horrifying as the friendly, soft-spoken offer to chain Pat up in the basement for a night or two until he’s better.

Brian gets it, he does. Pat’s face had paled—even under the flower-induced flush—when Brian had brought up the possibility of a hospital in the hallway. And Arthur doesn’t seem, uh, _surprised _by Pat’s current state. Just kind of annoyed, like he had other work to do this afternoon but then this became a whole _thing_.

The hogtied position must be aggravating Pat’s shoulders something terrible, but he doesn’t even wince when he knocks into the table leg and flips himself over onto his other side. Pat can’t stop _squirming_, like he’s trying to scratch an itch but can’t get it exactly right. In that regard, he looks _miserable_, his mouth open and panting, his toes scrabbling, making his boots squeak across the tile floor.

“No,” Brian says, shaking his head. He’s not leaving Pat tied up in the cellar with strangers, even if they are being oddly chill about the fact that he’s on the floor _licking Brian’s leg what the hell Pat_. “I’m not leaving him. He’s not gonna hurt me.”

“He’s gonna hurt _himself_, son,” Arthur says, _tsk_ing. “He can’t help it. Other people’ve really fucked up their insides trying to—” As if to illustrate this statement, he takes his boot and places it in the middle of Pat’s back, pressing Pat’s belly down to the floor. Pat moans and digs himself forward as best he can with bound limbs, until the toe of Arthur’s boot nudges at the seam of Pat’s jeans, and it startles Brian so bad that he jumps up, knocking the table with his knee, spilling his tea all over the floor.

“Don’t _do _that!” Brian barks. “Don’t put—stop!”

Arthur moves his foot back to the ground, and Pat _whines_, his mumbles coming out frenetic and fearful. “Kid, you gotta let him get off somehow. It’s—he’ll break his arm trying to get loose and do it himself.” Arthur sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “If you don’t wanna see your friend like this, why don’t you let me and Greg handle it? You can come back in the morn—”

“_No_. Look, I’m—we’re dating, okay? It’s not like he’s never seen my—” he stops. “Can you give us a minute? I gotta . . . we gotta figure out what to do.”

\---

3:45pm

Pat’s shaking as they hustle into the room—it’s just a cheap motel, thin-walled and yellow-gray, but actually clean enough. He’s stripping his clothes as he walks, leaving a sweat-soaked trail of them on the carpet. “Let me, uh. Try to shower. Need to feel—stay out here and I’ll, uh, take care of it and. Come to bed.”

Brian nods as Pat slams the bathroom door.

The water’s still going when Brian returns with their overnight bags, and he can hear Pat’s loud breathing even over the spray, so he knows Pat hasn’t like. Drowned. Or anything. Brian strips too, down to an undershirt and boxer-briefs, and lays the travel-size lube on the bed.

He puts the ropes on the bed, too, which Pat insisted on. They were in the rental emergency kit, maybe for lashing stuff to the roof. They don’t look . . . . Brian doesn’t think they’ll be comfy. He doesn’t want to tie Pat down but he figures Pat’ll insist. And really, there’s something—

Well.

There’s something.

Pat moans. It’s easy to hear, through the wall. “You okay?” Brian calls.

“_Go_,” Pat replies, then he _yelps_, and there’s the splashy sounds of scrambling against bathroom tile. “I can’t—Brian, you gotta leave—”

“Nah, c’mon baby,” Brian taunts, braver than he feels. “Wanna get you ready for me.”

Brian doesn’t, not really, except—he kind of _does_. They haven’t gone anywhere _near _Pat’s hole when they’ve fooled around, but Brian’s been thinking about it. A lot. Wants Pat to go at his own pace—he’s never had a partner touch his ass before—but Brian knows how fucking _good _he can make it, the noises he could draw out of Pat with two slick fingers and uninterrupted time—

The bathroom door slams open. Pat, who’s wet all over and buck naked, stumbles out, wide-eyed and moving strangely. His back toward the wall, eyes never leaving Brian on the bed, slow, methodical, careful. Like if he moves too fast, Brian will pounce, except he’s playing a game in which he wants to be caught.

Brian beckons with two fingers and Pat closes the distance, fast. He tumbles onto the bed on ungainly limbs, maneuvers and push-pulls Brian around until Pat’s head is at the foot of the bed and Brian’s draped over his torso, crushing Pat into the sheets. He’s gotta be heavy, but Pat can’t stop buzzing and jerking his hips into Brian’s side.

“Gonna mark you up,” Brian groans, and that’s the right thing to say because Pat gasps and tilts his head, baring a _criminal _amount of his long, pale neck for Brian’s mouth. And the sounds—god, the _sounds _Pat makes when Brian digs his teeth in and isn’t gentle about it, just goes fucking _hard _up under Pat’s jaw until Brian knows it’ll be purple and nasty and perfect.

But what would normally be Pat’s limit isn’t even _close_ to enough, and pretty soon he’s squirming away to get his sweaty fingertips pushing at Brian’s waistband.

“Off,” Pat grunts, his hips still churning churning. “Need—“

Before Pat can finish the thought, Brian tackles Pat and rolls him onto his stomach. Pat’s legs are—they’re too goddamn long for what Brian—

Pat chants out _yesyesyesyes_ and reaches behind himself, somehow grips Brian around the back of his skull and _slams _Brian’s head forward, mashing Brian’s nose against his hip, until Brian reaches up and spreads Pat’s ass, buries his mouth exactly where Pat wants it.

Pat _howls_, drops Brian’s head—thank _Christ_, Brian can fucking take a breath—and settles onto his elbows, his ass high in the air. Pat’s _trembling_ when Brian laves over his hole with his tongue, and his tongue dips in with barely any pressure at all. It’s wet and clean and slightly soapy, so Pat must have, before—Brian’s cock twitches and he spreads Pat’s cheeks farther apart, suctions his lips. Pat’s hot, keening yelps are encouragement enough, even if they’re different from Pat’s usual litany of curses and compliments. But Brian can imagine it, how Pat would stutter with delicious, horny guilt about how much he enjoys this, how he’d blaspheme in front of God and everyone at the undulating wetness of Brains’ tongue in his ass.

Things turn quick, after that. Pat uses his stupid arm strength to shove Brian’s face away, and in a split second he drives his arm between his legs and plunges three of his own fingers into his hole. Brian winces, that’s—Pat’s never, that’s a lot—but Pat whines and snuffles his nose into the comforter and tries and tries to pump his fingers in something like satisfaction.

“Stop, stop—” Brian says, grabbing Pat’s wrist, but Pat _snarls_ and refuses to budge, even as his brow furrows in what must be a sharp, bright pain. “Pat,” Brian pleads, pinching at Pat’s arm, his wrist. “Please, let me finger you for like a _second_, c’mon. Put the _brakes_ on.” He wrestles the bottle of lube into his palm and squeezes out a massive glob, smears it haphazardly over Pat’s fingers and hole as best he can. Pat sighs softly, rolling his hips when the slide of his fingers gets better, and Brian bites his lip at how fucking sweet it sounded.

Brian takes a breath, tries to forget about how bad he _wants _this, how many times he’s friggin’ fantasized about getting Pat trussed up with arms draped across the headboard, begging for mercy, while Brian drives at his prostate and milks Pat’s cock over and over again. He smears another handful of lube, takes another shuddering breath and tries hard to relax. If he can get control, he can help—Pat’s gonna hurt himself, it’s okay, it’s _okay_—

one of Pat’s hands wraps back again, gets Brian fingermark-hard by the meat of his upper arm and pulls him forward. Brian’s breath shudders out, he can’t, he’s sure Pat’s pulling Brian to touch his cock, but Brian needs to stay here, make sure Pat’s not—

he can hear Pat breathing heavy. The sounds are complex. Panting, whining. The slick ugly sound of Pat fucking himself open—

not ugly, not ugly, there’s nothing ugly about Pat, he’s _beautiful_—

the sound of him gasping Brian’s name—

his name! “_Brian!”_

“. . .yeah?”

“I said _get inside me _for the love of Christ.”

Brian laughs rather hysterically and yanks himself out of Pat’s grip. Pat’s hand flies to his cock immediately, jerking himself in a death grip that Brian would warn him about if this wasn’t a life or death dick-pulling situation. Pat’s craned his neck around to look at Brian, and his eyes are blown-out, fucked-out nasty, but it’s the closest to lucid that Pat’s seemed in hours.

“So glad to know Christ approves,” Brian says, a little manic as he dribbles some lube on his cock and nudges up behind Pat’s jerking body.

“Jesus . . . created this fucking . . . hell plant . . .” Pat’s whines punctuate the furious movement of his fingers spearing his hole, but this time when Brian tugs, Pat allows them to be pulled out. He _screams_, though, mutters, _emptyemptyempty_, and starts rolling his wrists on the bed.

“Hell gets all the fun,” Brian says as he lines up his cock. He has to put all of his humanly, non-plant-induced strength toward keeping his palm in the small of Pat’s back, so Pat doesn’t just _shove _himself onto Brian’s waiting cock.

“We’re having . . . fun too . . . ,” Pat grits out, the end trailing off as he drops his forehead to the bed.

“We can be,” Brian says, exhaling shakily.

“I’m gonna fucking die if you don’t get your cock in me.” Pat’s matter-of-fact delivery is, well, _hot_, despite it all. That rugged, butch begging that Brian loves so much. “So _please _fucking—I don’t know how long I can—”

“Gotta go slow, baby boy,” Brian soothes, and Pat cries out when the head of Brian’s dick sinks in. He holds for a second, just a _second_, murmuring to Pat about how he needs to stop and let Pat get used to it. Brian’s forearms burn, but they can’t hold out forever.

Pat makes a garbled, strangled-wet noise, and Brian tries his fucking hardest to stop, but Pat’s powerful and insistent—doesn’t quite, doesn’t quite pause, a nice rolling glide past a stop sign that only an asshole cop would catch you for—

Pat _sighs_, when Brian bottoms out. He goes still and breathes into it, his hole _clenching_, so warm and tight it makes Brian’s blood sing. Brian can feel the strain in Pat’s arms, his thighs, as Pat holds himself back from taking what he needs. He makes it approximately three seconds before the shivering overtakes him—like all this desire, all this _need_, makes Pat shake like a fault line on the Motel Six bed.

“Good, good, Pat,” Brian soothes, his own hands trembling against Pat’s waist. “You can move—”

He barely finishes the sentence before Pat _is _moving, not rolling his hips but _shoving_ his ass onto Brian’s length, these short, jerky bursts that fill him, then leave him wanting, then fill him up again. Brian’s _never _fucked anyone like this, never _been _fucked like this—because his dick’s the one involved but Pat is definitely the one doing the fucking. Brian feels flayed open and raw trying to make it _good_ for Pat instead of just blunt, unyielding pressure. But apparently even that, Brian hitching up and shifting the angle a bit—

“I’m gonna come,” Pat gasps, wet against his own bicep.

Brian laughs, not hysterical this time, just an unstifleable bark. “Whaddaya want _me _to do about it?”

Pat drops his arms and lets himself slam onto the mattress, one cheek up as Brian crowds over his back. “_Take me_,” Pat growls, and grips his fingers in the sheets, and it’s very good, actually—how the new position lets Brian’s cock sink into Pat’s hole like it was made to live there, how Brian’s covering Pat from neck-to-toe but still drives forward, desperate to push their bodies ever closer, ever higher.

A moan escapes, while Pat _takes it_, this long, sustained note that bleeds into _so good, so good, Brian just give it to me like that, please I needed you—_

and Brian gives it to him, gives everything to him, as he mashes his forehead to the sweaty center of Pat’s back and _comes_, his cock jerking and spilling—

and almost immediately he slips out, because Pat whines and writhes as he comes untouched, rutting against the bed like a bitch in heat. But Brian’s hip to the game now, so he shoves his softening, dripping cock back in as Pat chants _thankyouthankyouthankyou_ and shivers and sweats—

and Brian feels the ache in his heart, the guilt in his belly, at that—that’s Pat’s _thanking _him, that Brian did something to be _thankful _for rather than—

He rolls off Pat’s body, ignoring Pat’s whimpers and grabby-fingers, and takes one shaky inhale before bursting into tears.


End file.
